


i hope you don't mind

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Love Confessions, References to Shakespeare, Songfic, kind of, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28902669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: Crowley didn’t actually think it was at all funny, this feeling inside, though he was indeed sitting on the roof.He’d never dreamed of kicking off the moss, though. It was pretty, moss was. All soft and green and fluffy-looking. In fact, rather than kicking it away, Crowley found his constantly twitching Hell-fingers petting over the lush, emerald stuff. His other hand closed sweatily around the neck of a bottle of cab sav, not even something nice or fancy. Honestly, he’d just grabbed it at a corner store on his way to the roof. When he was alone, after all, Crowley didn’t always feel he deserved the nicest stuff. He just wanted to get there fast, you know?Crowley sits on the roof and wishes on a shooting star.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 114





	i hope you don't mind

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Elton John and Bernie Taupin's "Your Song," because I have one speed.

Crowley didn’t actually think it was at all funny, this feeling inside, though he was indeed sitting on the roof. 

He’d never dreamed of kicking off the moss, though. It was pretty, moss was. All soft and green and fluffy-looking. In fact, rather than kicking it away, Crowley found his constantly twitching Hell-fingers petting over the lush, emerald stuff. His other hand closed sweatily around the neck of a bottle of cab sav, not even something nice or fancy. Honestly, he’d just grabbed it at a corner store on his way to the roof. When he was alone, after all, Crowley didn’t always feel he deserved the nicest stuff. He just wanted to get there _fast,_ you know? 

He wanted to get there fast without hurting anyone else in the process.

Which is why he sometimes found himself up on the roof in the first place. He wouldn’t tell you, but he liked to be up high. After so much time spent beneath the Earth, he liked the chance to feel surrounded by the stars again. Not the Heavens, mind you. Fuck the Heavens. But the stars hadn’t done anything wrong to Crowley. They’d been pals once, after all. He liked to sit up close to them, tossing back cheap wine until the world went a little blurry and he could almost pretend he was something bright and incandescent himself.

It really was terrible wine. It swished sourly across Crowley’s tongue and he grimaced a little with each swallow. But it was doing its job; the spots of starstuff in the sky were beginning to look fuzzier and fuzzier, bleeding out of their own spheres to descend upon the roof and swallow Crowley whole. 

Wouldn’t that be something? Swallowed by a star.

“You miserable bastard,” he cackled out loud to himself before bringing the bottle back to his lips.

Here’s the truth, though: (Again, he’s not going to tell you, so I’ll do my best.)

Crowley… wasn’t miserable. Not tonight and not for a few months since. Since the World Didn’t End, he’d been… Well, “happy” feels a tad trite, doesn’t it? And it wasn’t contentment either. His nerves thrummed too consistently beneath his skin for anything like that. 

To put words in his mouth (it’s what we do, you know): I think it was something like freedom. Which was turning out to be wonderful and terrifying all at the same time.

Crowley licked the last of the wine away from his lips and snapped his fingers to miracle up a refill. He wanted to be outside of himself tonight. He wanted to float.

And he needed to think.

“Angel,” Crowley sighed to the stars, whom he knew would never judge him.

_Angel._

They had fallen back into their habits once the World Hadn’t Ended. They drank and bickered and Aziraphale had his bookshop and Crowley shouted down his plants and everything was as it was. And it was good, okay? It was tickety fucking boo as Aziraphale would say. But it wasn’t as much as Crowley wanted and he hated himself to admit it. He felt selfish and monstrous. As though his love for Aziraphale wasn’t already reciprocated as much as it should be, as much as it _could_ be. 

So, sometimes he sat on the roof and got sorry-drunk by himself, blanketed by the cosmos. He didn’t need it much. He didn’t feel this fucking sorry for himself all the time. Because it really, really, really was good. But there was this awful thing that clawed at Crowley’s needless, needy heart and sometimes he had to get away and let it run its course.

Tomorrow morning he would kick down the door of the bookshop, triumphant, arms laden with pastries for Aziraphale, ready to face a new day, ready to face a new dawn that always was and that never would be.

Crowley was fine.

Drunk enough for the moment, Crowley let the wine bottle suspend itself in the air as he leaned back against the roof, folding his hands behind his head and stretching out his long body, wincing at the unnecessary cracking sounds made by his joints and bones. At that precise moment, because sometimes even the skies are assholes, a shooting star rocketed across the black night sky.

Crowley cocked his head to one side in consideration. He wouldn’t make a wish. He’d seen enough of magic of all sorts to never trust taking a chance on fucking around his someone else’s free will, with someone else’s free heart. He closed his eyes tightly to make sure his drunk brain didn’t even accidentally _think_ the selfish words lurking in his selfish bones. 

Instead something softer and quieter bubbled to the service:

_I wish you were here._

Because he did. Always.

So, naturally, of course, the air shifted beside him. Crowley kept his eyes shut for another moment, feeling the weight of his wine-soaked, love-drenched tongue in his mouth. 

“Angel.”

“Crowley.”

Crowley rolled over onto his side, blinking his eyes open. Aziraphale sat cross-legged beside him there on the roof, holding the cheap wine bottle and wrinkling his nose a little. Crowley smiled at that. 

“May I, my dear?” Aziraphale asked without looking at him.

“Whatever you like, angel.”

Always.

Another shift of a miracle in the air and Aziraphale was suddenly holding a much nicer bottle of wine. Crowley’s vision swam as he tried to make out the label. Aziraphale, meanwhile, was always clear as crystal in his mind’s eye. And, you know, in his eye’s eyes.

(Anyway.)

“It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?” Aziraphale breathed, passing the bottle to Crowley.

Crowley accepted the bottle, running his thumb over the green glass, savouring the cool, smooth feeling on his skin. 

“‘S always lovely now,” Crowley said, thumb still tracing the bottle over and over again. Twitching. Always twitching.

“What do you mean, Crowley?” Aziraphale finally turned to look at him. And Crowley would never tell him, but fuck, the full blast of those shining lake-blue eyes always pierced directly through his heart and out through his back again, ripping up his innards and his nice jacket along the way.

Crowley curled his arm back under his head and hitched his knees up closer to his chest. He could feel the lull of sleep settling over him. He was drunk and warm and safe and where he wanted to be and he didn’t want to take a chance of ruining it by staying awake. 

“I mean,” Crowley went on, letting his eyes drift shut again. “It’s always lovely now.”

“You said that already.” There was a smile in Aziraphale’s voice. “What do you mean by it?”

(Oh, tell the truth, you old serpent.)

“You’re here,” Crowley explained, the words collapsing from his lips like a dying star. “You’re here. You weren’t here once and everything tasted sort of grey and hopeless, you know? But you’re here, Aziraphale, so everything is lovely. Does that make sense?”

“You’re an awfully thoughtful drunk,” Aziraphale remarked, though now Crowley detected a bit of a shake to his voice. Crowley’s eyes blinked open again. He extended one arm across the roof to reach for Aziraphale’s hand.

Simply, quietly, because sometimes the moment is just finally the moment and there’s nothing any of us can do about it, Aziraphale curled his fingers around Crowley’s.

Crowley sobered up then, smacking his lips and shaking his head as the alcohol drained from his system, but he did not flinch or pull away. There was nothing that could hurt him anymore. This wasn’t a high drive, this wasn’t a barrel over the falls, this wasn’t being cast out of Heaven.

This was a hand held in his own and the words he knew better than any others locked and loaded in his throat. 

“Aziraphale,” he said softly, stroking his thumb now over the angel’s soft skin.

“I was reading tonight,” Aziraphale said, looking down now to their joined hands.

“What were you reading, angel?”

“Shakespeare.”

“Course you were.”

“ _As You Like It,_ ” Aziraphale continued. “And there’s a line that I felt as though I’d read for the first time tonight.”

“ _My affection hath an unknown bottom-_ ” Crowley began.

“ _Like the bay of Portugal,_ ” Aziraphale whispered back.

Crowley just nodded.

Aziraphale rolled over onto his own side now, gazing at Crowley. Crowley gazed back, feeling a sure sort of calm which he couldn’t explain. There they were. There he was. 

“Crowley, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale’s voice was a tiny, hushed, hurting thing. 

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand and scooted closer across the roof.

“Nope,” Crowley murmured. “You don’t have to do that, Aziraphale.”

Unshed tears glittered in Aziraphale’s eyelashes. Crowley tugged the angel against his chest and let him weep. Crowley himself remained dry-eyed, surprising even himself. He was free now. They were free and Aziraphale was here beside him and the monster in Crowley’s guts was growing quieter by the second.

“Is it time yet?” Crowley said into Aziraphale’s soft hair. “Can I tell you now? Is it okay?”

Aziraphale pulled himself away, still caught surely in Crowley’s arms. 

“I’d like to tell you first this time,” Aziraphale brought a hand up to Crowley’s face.

“What if we say it together?” Crowley suggested.

That brought a radiant, relieved smile to Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, I like that. I like that very much.”

“On the count of three, then. Three, two-”

“Wait,” Aziraphale’s eyes wobbled with worry. “Three, two, one, say it? Or is it three, two, say it? Or is it-”

“Three, two, one, say it, okay?”

“Okay,” Aziraphale agreed.

Crowley pulled him back in again and hugged him. Aziraphale gasped quietly against Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley let him go and Aziraphale shuffled backwards against the roof, his eyes fixed on Crowley’s.

“Three,” Crowley began again.

“Two,” Aziraphale counted.

“One,” Crowley whispered.

“I love you.”

And they had saved the world again. For miles and miles beyond the roof, flowers smelled sweeter and the next morning’s bread would be fresher and everyone slept soundly and dreamed happily. 

“I love you,” Crowley said again.

“I have loved you for so long, my darling,” Aziraphale said. “I think I didn’t know what to call it because it was always there. Like a song I’ve always known the words for.”

“Now who’s the poetic one?”

“May I kiss you, please?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley nudged ever closer across the roof, draping an arm again over Aziraphale’s waist. Aziraphale brought both hands now to Crowley’s face. 

“Should we count again or-”

Aziraphale kissed the joke away from Crowley’s lips. His soft, damp mouth trembled against Crowley’s, so Crowley tightened his arm around Aziraphale’s waist, pouring his own certainty into the angel he loved so much. Aziraphale looped his arms around Crowley’s neck and finally pressed their bodies together, as close as they could be, kissing him and kissing him. Crowley traced his fingers lightly over the small of Aziraphale’s back and Aziraphale ran his own fingers over the soft hair at the back of Crowley’s neck and they never stopped kissing. 

It can be rather exhausting, this love confession business, so they didn’t get very far. Not that night, anyway. They kissed and they stroked each other’s hair and they held hands and they smiled and they whispered “I love you” over and over again. After a while, Aziraphale miracled a soft blanket over the both of them and nuzzled against Crowley’s shoulder. Before he closed his eyes to the stars, Crowley realized how rarely he’d ever been eager for the sun. But the morning was full now of promise, of potential. 

He turned his head to place a soft kiss on the top of Aziraphale’s head and then let sleep steal over him. 

Because there would be a morning soon. There would be held hands over tea cups and laughter unrestrained and there would be more of what had always been and there would be fascinating new bits to explore and consider. 

Crowley fell asleep with a smile on his face. 

How strange. How lovely. To be loved like a song, to be someone’s wish upon a star. 

_How wonderful life is  
While you’re in the world_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I needed a soft little songfic to dust off some cobwebs! I hope to be back to some of my WIPs very soon. Come visit me on Tumblr if you want to yell about Good Omens or Elton John or both!


End file.
